


wanted dead or alive (preferably alive)

by binkbonk



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alien Abduction, Amputee Shiro (Voltron), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Gore, Desert, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Slow Burn, basically wild west meets aliens, because when doesnt he, cowboys and aliens, kinda spooky?, we love some good ole cattle mutilation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-07-07 04:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15901101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/binkbonk/pseuds/binkbonk
Summary: Shiro’s been a friend to the Holt family for so long that he’s practically their adopted son/brother. So naturally, when he and Matt go missing out of the blue Pidge seeks out the best navigator she’s ever known to help her find him: Keith Kogane





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> im such a slut for desert fics so like,,,you KNOW i had to try and make one
> 
> P.S. this chapter is kind of like...... a prologue? but also not because i want it to be seen as just as important as the chapters that follow but u know............ it wont always be centered around shiro and just have to do with him, other characters will mosey in eventually i promise
> 
> also if anyone’s curious, i came up with the title while listening to my yeehaw playlist and bon jovi’s “wanted dead or alive” came on so i took it for what it was: God’s choice

Shiro knows the dangers of the desert. This is, quite frankly, why he has a pistol affectionately named “Cass” on his bedside table (he’s never been keen on killing things, but a shot fired in the air is more than enough to scare off most creatures or humans of ill-intent that prowl around his ranch). This is also why he _never_ forgets to tie his horse, Blackie, inside her stall each night— away from prying eyes and hungry mouths.

Throughout his many years as a rancher, he’s most certainly had his fair share of encounters that would make city folk shake in their boots.

He’s seen half-eaten carcasses of newborn calfs that were dragged away by night, shin-bones exposed and gnawed thoroughly by coyotes. He’s heard the blood-curdling scream of the cougar that stalks the red bluffs in the dark. He’s witnessed half-dead creatures lay helplessly, awaiting their doom as they’re picked apart by vultures and ravens until there’s nothing left but some ribcage and skull, bleaching in the midday sun. Once, when he was still filling out his riding boots and didn’t know the land as well, he almost fell into a rattlesnake nest (and NEVER has again). It seems nearly every nook and cranny of this dry, dusty wasteland can kill you. Hell, it’s a running joke in the nearby town that even the poppy flowers have thorns in these parts.

So yes, Shiro _does_ know the dangers of the desert—very intimately. He’s seen nearly all the place has to offer, and can call most anything he comes across by name— from the sagebrush his cattle feed on to the collared lizards that bask on the stones. Takashi Shirogane has not felt true fear when it comes to these plains for _years_ , but he cannot suppress the unease that’s rising like bile in the back of his throat at the sight in front of him.

It’s one of his heifers, Clementine, lying in the dry grass— dead. Except she has no eyes. Or organs, as far as Shiro can tell. Dried blood has left trails down the side of her face, starting at the empty eye-sockets and resembling rust-colored tears. Flies swarm around the gruesome holes and inside her half-open mouth like a living pepper cloud. Her underside appears to have been slashed open, but there’s nothing left inside, like somebody just scooped the innards out with a giant spoon and oh God, there’s really just nothing _there_ —

At this point Shiro must turn away and tries to get his breathing back to any semblance of normal. He feels a few tears roll down his cheek and he stubbornly swipes them away on his flannel. His father had always said he cared too much for animals, but goddamnit, Clementine was so sweet. He’d fallen in love with her pretty doe-eyes the second she opened them, sand-colored fur still slick from being born. He’d taken care of her when her knobby calf-legs had made her tumble into a cactus. He’d watch her grow into a graceful, affectionate bovine that loved head scratches and to be fed carrots when he brought them back from town. To see her slaughtered like this was a punch to the gut.

He breathes deeply once, twice, three times, and turns to look at the carcass once more. Skimming his eyes over the body, he wisely deduces that no animal could have done this. He’d honestly prefer that it was just some varmint, but the cuts are far too clean and purposeful for that. So now, he must reluctantly consider the very likely possibility that someone has a hell of a bone to pick with him.

He can’t say he’s fond of that possibility.

  
—

  
The Holt family lives in an old (but charming) ranch house a few miles away from Shiro’s home. They’ve been the closest thing he’s had to a family ever since his parents died and he moved out west at the age of 19; grieving, scared, and desperate for change. There is very little he doesn’t entrust to the Holts, and even less to Matthew Holt in particular. The smart young man and himself share a great interest in horses as well as— oddly enough— astrology and clicked almost immediately. Countless nights have been spent on the Holt family’s roof, stargazing with the boy and his little sister, Pidge. Sometimes Samuel (the two sibling’s father) would even join them, pointing out planets and cracking bad jokes. Little by little, his visits to their ranch had filled the emptiness that was a constant after his parent’s absence (well, most of it anyway. There would always be some sort of ache when he thought about the life he could have had, or the memories that never happened, but he loved the desert and the relationships he’d formed here. He’s not sure he would trade it for anything, even his legitimate parents). And so, this is how Shiro comes to be knocking on the elaborately carved door, asking to speak with Matthew.

He’s sitting in the sunlit dining room, around afternoon when he brings it up to his good friend.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a mountain lion? I hear they can be rather vicious.” The Holt sets his coffee down on the elegant wood table and sits across from Shiro, who shakes his head in frustration.

“No, Matthew, I swear, you shoulda’ seen it! No animal would do something so...” he searches for the word. “So malicious.”

“So what do you think it is, then? A person?” Matt had his brows furrowed in interest and a hint of disbelief.

“I—I don’t know! Maybe??” Shiro took a pause, staring into the coffee held in his hands. His shoulders felt heavy as anvils. “Maybe...... someone’s after me?”

The other man picked up the vulnerability in his friend’s voice. He sipped the bitter drink and replied incredulously, “Shiro, what have you ever did that’d get you into trouble like that?”

“Something real bad I reckon, if it warranted this sort of thing,” he chuckles dryly. Shiro may have grown up far away from the desert, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t eventually pick up some of the slang. Every so often a “y’all” or “ain’t” or “reckon” will slip out, and if he’s around friends (mainly Pidge) more often than not they’ll give him a chagrined nudge in the elbow or knowing look that seems to say “you’re one of us now”, while Shiro can only stand there red-faced as cactus fruit. Even now in such a serious conversation, he sees a small quirk of Matt’s mouth at the diction. As soon as it appears, however, it’s gone out of respect for his friend’s distress. Shiro continues, “You know what really gets to me about it?”

Matt quirks an eyebrow, waiting for him to go on.

“They didn’t even go for any meat, just took her guts! Left perfectly good beef to rot. Ain’t that odd, I mean, who does that??”

“Someone who wants to make a point, I suppose,” Matt murmurs thoughtfully, readjusting his almost too large glasses.

“But who?? Why? There’s hardly nobody else that lives around here besides you guys an’ me..... I just don’t get it, Matt.”

At this Matt sighs and puts his mug down, silently commanding Shiro to look up at him. “Well,” he starts. “In any case, cow-murderer or not, you’re always welcome to stay here,” he offers warmly.

This makes Shiro relax a little and let out a genuine smile. “Right, thank you, I’ll keep that in mind.”

Later that evening when he returns to his ranch, Shiro finds that Clementine’s body is gone, with not even so much as a blood trail to suggest she was ever there in the first place.

  
—

  
It’s a few nights later when he jolts awake to the panicked whinny of Blackie and the tell-tale bellow of a cow in trouble.

He curses outwardly, springing out of bed and snagging Cass off the table. At this point, doing so is a reflex. He can’t count the times he’s had to chase away mangy, half-starved coyotes toying with his animals, but still he can’t help the eerie prickle on the back of his neck, telling him this time it’s different. He swings the wooden door open with a loud creak, lantern in one hand, pistol in the other and—

Takashi Shirogane’s heart falls into his boots.

In the golden light, there’s a dark figure nearly larger than the cow it’s hunched over. It looks up, sensing the change in brightness but its face is _wrong_ , it’s _so wrong_ because where there should be the telltale white of human eyes there’s just these awful yellow orbs, and they _glow_. One eye seems to be damaged, and upon further inspection Shiro discovers something akin to a strapless eyepatch covers it. Claws the size of Shiro’s thumb are sunk into the poor cattle’s flesh, leaving steady trails of blood in their wake.

Naturally, Shiro does what anyone would. He subconsciously takes a step back, raises his pistol and exclaims, “WHAT THE FUCK?”

The creature doesn’t seem to be phased by this, other than a twitch of its pointed ears. It just keeps boring into him with its cat-like stare. Ever so slowly, after it’s finished sizing him up, its mouth starts to open, revealing white needle-sharp teeth—an unsettling contrast to the dark blues and blacks of the nighttime desert.

It takes Shiro a moment to register that this thing is smiling. It’s not a nice smile; it’s twisted and cruel and Shiro is positive he’s never felt such pure, instinctual fear in all his life and his entire being is screaming at him to run but it’s like his body has locked up, he can’t move.

Something tells him that he probably couldn’t outrun it anyway.

“Wh—What—Who are you?” his voice trembles like a leaf, but it’s loud enough to be heard.

The creature keeps grinning all sinister-like, and lets out a deep, awful chuckle. “Don’t worry,” it says (in perfect English? Shiro’s baffled.) “You’ll see me again very soon.”

After a few seconds it begins to raise one fur-covered arm from the belly of the cow, and in its hand is something Shiro’s never seen before. It’s round in appearance with what looks like a button in the middle, which emits a faint purple glow. A long, clawed finger presses said button and before Shiro can process what he’s seeing, both the creature and the cow disappear in a flash of light.

“Shit!” he hisses, surveying the land that stretches out before him. He sees nothing; just like last time. All the evidence has disappeared without a trace. An awful thought rears as he looks upwards to the stars— what if it was never there to begin with? He had heard stories of lost, isolated vaqueros who had slowly went insane with only a parched horse and cacti to keep them company. Could Shiro finally be losing it? He supposes that one can’t tell whether or not they’re truly sane, but oftentimes desert madness only comes along when one is completely alone, and he still has the Holts to speak with, right? And he goes into town and talks with Allura and Coran at their shop once a week so hopefully that’s enough ?? But—

His overthinking is interrupted by a thudding sound in Blackie’s stall, and with a pang of guilt he realizes he hasn’t yet checked on her.

He rushes over to the small wood shed he keeps her in and fumbles with the door, preparing for the worst. Thankfully all he sees inside is the tall black horse (thus, her name), who stomps her foot and brays in warning. Shiro stays as far away as possible in the cramped space to avoid frightening her any further. He puts the pistol in his back pocket and hangs the lantern on a hook he fashioned specifically for this purpose.

Gingerly, he takes a step toward the mare. “Hey, girl,” he murmurs.

Blackie tosses her head with a snort, eyes bugged and ears flat.

At this Shiro puts up his hands in a placating manner. “Hey, hey.... Easy, easy now, it’s just me, you’re safe I promise.”

She doesn’t seem totally convinced, but allows him to continue inching closer until his hand is close enough to be sniffed by her velvety muzzle. Her lip brushes across the calloused palm a couple times and, after deeming he’s harmless, nudges into his touch. The hair feels like stubble when it rubs against his skin the wrong way, but through the years he’s become fond of the feeling.

The man lets out a relieved chuckle at the action. “Yeah, there you go, sweetheart. You were pretty spooked too, huh? I guess that means I’m not crazy after all.”

The horse gives him a look that says “you keep telling yourself that” and Shiro can’t help but smile.

He doesn’t leave her stall that night, and she doesn’t seem to mind the extra company (Shiro figures she’s just as shaken up about this as he is). While she stands in one corner drifting in and out of horse dreamland, Shiro stares at the gaps between the wood planks until the orange desert sun starts to shine through.

  
—

  
It’s been three days since Shiro’s encounter with the monster, and he’s hardly got a wink of shuteye.

The few precious hours of sleep he does get are filled with visions of monstrous purple claws raking at his chest until he wakes up screaming, expecting blood to be running down his chest like water in the river basins during the rainy season. Therefore he prefers to fight off the almost constant fatigue he feels until he has no choice but to give in, surrendering to the tar pit-esque grip of sleep; stuck in the enveloping pool of terror because his body can’t stand functioning without the damned thing.

He’s decided to not tell Matt about his second encounter, for fear that the other man would call him absolutely bonkers (which would be quite a valid accusation, Shiro admits).

He spends his waking hours with Blackie, riding through the canyons and plains that lie on the outskirts of his ranch. He never goes anywhere without his pistol. He used to never bother but now... he feels hunted. The words of the creature float heavy above his head like a bounty. The rest of the desert seems to feel the same way, because every jackrabbit he meets, every toad under the rocks seems to be waiting for something positively gruesome to happen.

It’s the fifth night after when he finally gets a decent amount of rest.

His dreams are different this time. He’s somewhere dark, with fog surrounding him on all sides. He hears a familiar sinister laugh a ways off, and it echoes off imaginary walls. A voice in his head that isn’t his own speaks.

_I’m coming for you._

The mock-playfulness in the tone makes Shiro’s blood run cold. He runs through the mist, causing it to swirl in tendrils around him, attempting to fill the spaces he previously occupied.

_You really think you can run from me? Silly boy._

Suddenly it feels as if he’s wading through molasses; his legs are moving in slow-motion, but whatever’s chasing him doesn’t seem hindered at all if the sound of rapidly approaching footfalls is anything to go by. He cries out in frustration, begging his body to _go faster damnit_ to no avail; his legs continue to be agonizingly heavy.

The steps approaching are right behind him now, and a puff of hot, meaty breath reaches the back of his neck before he’s smacked into the black stone below him. Once again, claws tear into his flesh, shredding his back to ribbons as manic cackling fills the air. He feels warm blood covering his shoulder-blades, his biceps, his neck, his ribs, everywhere. Shit, he’s going to die, he’s going to die, he doesn’t want to—

Shiro awakens with a strangled cry and shakily sits up in his bed. He turns his head to check his surroundings and freezes.

Two yellow eyes stare back at him in the darkness, not even a foot away.

The monster from his nightmares gives its ugliest smile yet. “I’ve missed you since our last chat.”

Out of reflex (and also terror), Shiro gives a shout and tries to run.

The last thing he sees is the fur-jagged outline of a burly arm raised above Shiro’s head, preparing to punch his lights out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yeah uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh itd be real nice to get feedback on this to know if its actually worthwhile or not to continue? its my first time writing a multichapter fic so its def gonna take some getting used to but should i keep going please have mercy on me regarding updates and shit this chapter took me over a whole month because i wanted to make sure it made sense (still might not make sense for all i know but the effort is there lol)
> 
> TLDR: thanks for reading, please feel free to leave your opinion on whether or not this should be pursued further and feel free to call me garbage as well


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pidge tries her best to convince keith to help her AND we learn a lil somethin somethin about keithy’s background :o

 “You want me to _what_?” The black-haired boy stared down at his friend, dumbfounded; she was standing in the doorway of the ramshackle building Keith called home. It’s in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, but anyone who knows him also knows that he prefers to stay as far from other people as possible. “How do you even expect me to find him??? Sheriff Lotor and his band of yahoos have been searching for MONTHS and only came back with a handful of dirt to show for it.”

At the disheartening reminder, Pidge lowered her gaze to a crack in the wood frame, trying not to think about the implications of someone missing for so long. _No_ , she reminds herself. _It’s Shiro, he can’t be_... She clears her throat, hoping to dislodge the lump forming there, and tries to stand up a little straighter—she doesn’t come close to Keith’s height, but damn it, Pidge can and _will_ pin the rascal to the ground if she has to. She looks him square in his scruffy face and counters, “I know they ain’t had no luck. That’s why I’m askin’ _you_. You of all people know the sheriff doesn’t give a rat’s ass about doing his duty. So well as he’s paid and a whore’s in his bed each night it’s a job well done.”

Keith visibly stiffens at this. He growls, “‘Course I know that! Not like I could forget, anyway...” If he’s being honest, the very mention makes him feel contaminated and awful all over and Pidge knows this; she’s _using_ him to get what she wants (that’s all people are good at, Keith’s learned—using and throwing away). His blood boils and he speaks through gritted teeth. “If all you’re gonna do is manipulate me, get outta here. I’m not coming on your wild goose chase.” He reaches for the door, aiming to shut it in her face, but the stubborn girl has wedged her boot inside.

“Keith, wait! That’s not what I meant—I didn’t think...” she stammers for the right words. Goddamnit, she’s never been good at this whole talking thing. “Look... Shiro means an awful lot to me, and if you’d’ve known him he’d mean an awful lot to you, too, I’m sure of it.”

Keith scoffs but allows her to continue.

“You’re the best navigator in these parts, and you’re sharp as them knives you like so much. If anyone can find him, it’s you... Please, Keith, he’s _family_. Even—“ her voice cracks. “Even if he’s... gone... at least then I’d know. _Please_ , Keith, they... They took Matt, too.”

”What?”

Pidge nods, averting her tearful gaze. “He’s been gone for a week. Before that our cows were disappearing and he insisted that had something to do with Shiro being taken and then just like that he... He was...” she swallows thickly. “I think they might be in the same place. I think all the people who’ve been disappearing lately may be in the same place. If you help me I’m _sure—_

“Okay.”

The girl is taken aback, caramel eyes wide. “W-what?”

Keith opens the door wider, meeting her face to face. He sighs, “Okay, Pidge. I’ll look into it... maybe.”

Pidge is ecstatic. She’s jumping up and down, squealing, “Thank you thank you thank you!” over and over—quite undignified for an almost 20 year old woman, but who’s Keith to judge? Besides, he’s always been quite fond of the youngest Holt’s nearly unpredictable enthusiasm. Her somber mood from before appears to be lessened (for now, at least) and Keith feels a bit of relief. She deserves to have a respite from the weeks of worrying and hypothesizing that she’s no doubt put herself through. After her jumping about, she lifts up her skirts (much to Keith’s horror) and pulls a paper of sorts out of her bloomers. She extends it to the boy and explains, “this is what he looks like.”

Keith stares at her for a bit and tentatively takes it, trying to fight off the red tinge his face definitely has now.

Pidge must pick up on his unease and heaves an exasperated sigh. “Go on, look at it! I ain’t got cooties, you toad!”

He huffs and unrolls it. Staring back at him from the parchment is a strapping young man with a confident smile and kind eyes. The words, “MISSING: TAKASHI SHIROGANE” frame the top and bottom of the photograph. Interesting name; definitely not from around here. His almond-shaped eyes and sandy skin attest to this as well. It’s so odd, but Keith could swear he’s seen that face before. That smile, the eyes; they crinkled just like in the photo when—

Holy shit. It’s _him_.

He’s fourteen years old, and he’s as far away from that damned house as he could get on his own two twig-legs. He’d been thriving off potato peels and other barely-edible things found rummaging through the town-folk’s garbage. Hungry and foolish, he’d decided to prey on a bread stand across the street. While the owner— a pudgy old woman with a VERY large mole on her nose— was distracted with a customer, he made his move. No sooner than he dashed between the customer, grabbed one of the still-warm loaves, and ran like hell, he heard the woman’s shrill cry of “THIEF, STOP HIM!” He’d looked back long enough to see what appeared to be the sheriff on his tail, and the customer still near the stand, staring in bewilderment, unsure what to make of what just happened. Keith mused that the man looked rather stupid with his mouth open like that and then the boys’ stroke of luck is gone. He trips on his way-too-big shoes and gets a mouthful of dirt. Hands are on him, _the sheriff’s_ , his brain supplies.

Only it doesn’t feel like the sheriff.

Thick fingers dig into his ribs, aggravating already bruised skin. Keith may have run far, far away from that house, but in this moment he feels the cold wooden floor against his cheek and the calloused hands of his father. _No,_ he thinks _, please no, he can’t be here, not again, no more, no more._ He whimpers.

“Yeah, that’s right, you scoundrel,” a silky voice says from above him. “You can’t run from me.” It sounds nothing like the sheriff anymore, and he’s right. He’ll never get away, there’ll never be a true escape from this. He can run as far as he wants but this, this feeling of being at the complete mercy of someone else will always be breathing down his neck.

Keith Kogane has known for quite some time now that life is war. He’s kicked and screamed and cried against it. But in this moment, the young teen comes to the realization that he has lost.

Distantly he registers the crunch of boots in the dust; another person coming to the scene. Probably the customer, who’s finally come to his senses and decided to join in on the fun, maybe throw a punch or two Keith’s way. That’s alright. He’s used to it.

“Wait, wait!” The footsteps stop right above him, and a voice that sounds slightly out of breath pants, “Please, sheriff, uh.. Lotor? This is just a misunderstanding. I can explain.”

Well, that catches Keith a bit off-guard.

“Oh?” The sheriff isn’t convinced, but the grip on Keith’s ribs loosen, and he feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Yes. That’s... that’s my brother, he’s awful fond of bread and thought I’d already paid for it. I’ll gladly take him off your hands.” The customer bashfully puts a hand on the back of his neck and smiles, oozing charm.

Keith can tell the sheriff doesn’t really buy it, but regardless he takes his hands off the boy and straightens up. “Very well,” he murmurs. “Keep a better hold on your.... brother next time.” He starts off, nose high in the air and insanely long white hair trailing down his back.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, the other man turns in his direction. Out of reflex, Keith curls in on himself, afraid of what he’ll do without the eyes of another on the two.

He crouches down to the boy’s level, and Keith sees concern etched onto his features— he notes that the grey of his irises are something akin to the steel edge of a blade, piercing but comforting. He’s never seen anything like it.

“Are you okay?”

Keith’s not used to people asking that. The hell is he supposed to say? After a moment he settles on mumbling a defensive (and far from convincing) “‘m fine” before rising to his feet and brushing the dirt off his knobby knees. While keeping an eye out for any sudden movements from the other, he grabs the dirtied bread he dropped and makes to walk away, but the man objects.

“Wait! Please, just... just have these.” In his burly arms are two loaves of bread. He holds them out and smiles again. “I bet they taste much better without the dirt.”

Keith’s eyes narrow, but the wave of hunger he gets just from smelling the fresh pastries is enough to make him reach for them. When the stranger makes no move to hurt him, he grabs them and takes a good five steps back.

He’s preparing to run again to some abandoned tavern or empty alley, but the man bends down a little to look in Keith’s eyes. This action alone from anyone else would appear patronizing, but the look on his face is one of earnest and understanding when he speaks in a low voice, as if telling the secret of the universe. “Keep fighting. D’you hear me? Even if you have to claw your way out, I want you to keep fighting.”

Keith’s stunned. After a pause he swallows thickly, and manages a lame “Yeah. Okay.”

_How did he know?_

Before he can ask, the stranger is turning back toward the direction of the bread stand, head inclined toward the sky. He takes in the reds, the yellows, the pinks of the desert sunset, and lets out a low whistle of approval. “Beautiful,” he notes. He faces Keith one last time before walking back the way he came, instructing, “be careful out there, try not to get into too much trouble.”

All Keith can do is nod.

The man then continued down the dirt road, his outline a black shadow against the watercolored heavens. Violet eyes follow him until he mounts a dark mare and gallops into the plains; the setting sun making rider and horse meld together as one mismatched creature. They continue to stare even after the figure disappears on the horizon.

Keith’s lived in the desert his whole life. He’s met many men who claim to be cowboys; parading around in their chaps, guns ‘round their hips with their bold words and empty threats. Some are quite convincing in their pursuits, but all are mere flies to this colossus; this all-encompassing embodiment of the Spirit of the West with his saddle-worn jeans and pearly smile and his words—

The words. They were simple but the words he’d spoken had stuck with him all his life, urging Keith on when _everything_ had been against his favor. It was one of the few reasons he’d survived his hellish upbringing (that, and pure spite).

Well shit.

Now there was absolutely no backing out of Pidge’s request; he had to find the man who saved him. And if it wasn’t for... Shiro, was it? then it was for himself, to clear his conscience. To even out the score.

He’s brought out of his reverie by Pidge clearing her throat, looking expectant. “So? What’s it gonna be?”

Keith folds the parchment. “Yeah,” he answers, his resolve strengthening. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back y’all! sorry its been a while ive been busy :// i know this isn’t the most interesting chapter??? but i find it necessary ANYWHO as always thanks for reading, comments (both criticisms and praise) are always appreciated!!! <3


	3. Chapter 3

  
When he’s finished discussing the search with Pidge, Keith closes the door of his shack, sliding down it. The uneven floor boards—he’d set them up years ago all by himself— dug into his palms and rear end. It was oddly grounding; a small reminder that this place was truly his. A little corner of the world where no one else had a say in what transpired.

Keith took a deep breath in... and out.

What had he gotten himself into?

He snakes a hand into his boot, grabbing the poster he shoved in there. He gives Shiro a good look again.

_If anyone can find him, it’s you._

A weight settled on his shoulders when he recalled Pidge’s words. Exactly how was he supposed to go about this? How do you look for someone who’s disappeared without a trace? Navigating was one thing— he knew most everywhere for the next 30 miles like the back of his hand— but aimlessly searching for someone who may be a total lost cause? That’s a whole ‘nother story. It gives Keith a squirmy, uneasy feeling when he ponders the enormous task ahead: he’s definitely bitten off more than he can chew this time.

He heaves himself to his feet with a sigh; might as well do _something_ to get things rolling. Letting the poster float to the floor, Keith haphazardly rummages through a nearly-dilapidated crate, held together by a few loose hinges. When he finds what he’s looking for—a hammer and a few nails— he moves over to the wall adjacent to his sad excuse for a bed (it’s just a sack of dried sagebrush on the floor). The taste of hard, rusty metal clangs against his teeth when he sets a nail in between them so he may grab the poster once more. He flattens it out against the rough planks, takes the nail from his mouth, and begins pounding. It feels as if he’s intruding, the rhythm he finds echoing _just slightly_ outside— there’s not a lot of sound to compete with.  
He tries to hurry through it.

When it’s finished he lowers the hammer, standing back to admire his work. Where accomplishment should be there is only a feeling of deficiency. The poster merely serves to highlight how lacking the rest of the wall is; how little information Keith has. Sighing once again, he flops onto his makeshift bed, sending a cloud of dust airborne.

He searches for answers in his ceiling, asking every knothole, every crack, _where are you?_

The evening desert wind whispers through the shack’s creaking frame, hinting at the chill guaranteed to come when the sun sets. It breathes onto his cheek through a gap in the siding, flirting with him, taunting _I know something you don’t know._

Keith has fitful dreams of locked doors with no key in sight.

•

It’s two weeks later when he first feels it.

Keith awakes one morning with a faint buzzing in the back of his head. At first he chocks it up to being hungover, but then recalls he’s been bone dry for two weeks—give or take—to see if that’d help him find any clues on Shiro and Matt’s whereabouts. It’d led him nowhere. Just like everything else.

As he regained his bearings, the buzzing had gradually become a bit more intense, refusing to be ignored. Keith clenched his jaw— god, he could feel it in his _teeth_ — and held his hands to his ears, theorizing that perhaps the sound is outside and not inside his head—

except it is. And it kept getting worse. It bloomed into his stomach, making him bend over and gasp. What he realized after a while, however, was that it didn’t hurt per-say (a bit uncomfortable, yes, but not painful), it just felt like he should be... somewhere else. He _needed_ to be somewhere else.

Holy shit.

This was what he’d been waiting for.

The vast expanse outside his shack was _calling_ to him, showing him where to go, if only—

His excitement was interrupted by a terse knock at the door.

He already knew who it was; he had actively avoided Pidge after their first discussion, reluctant to tell her that during his searches he had come up with absolutely zilch—it was only a matter of time before she’d seek him out.

Practically springing to the entrance with his newfound energy, he swung open the door. Chest heaving, long hair clinging to his face from sweat, he grins at the small, slightly-alarmed woman.

“I’m gonna need a horse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik this is kinda short but tbh they might be like that for a lil while until we start getting into the nitty gritty parts of the story


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to anyone who’s been reading since the beginning:  
> while i was organizing the story i decided to have matt go missing too for uhhh reasons and i did insert him into the previous chapters and i know this is like real unprofessional and im sorry but when all this is over i hope you’ll see why i did it and as always thank u for all your support

Keith’s been roaming around on the horse Pidge lent him— a charming, dappled gray stallion with a long, black mane— for days. He spends his time following nothing but a map he’s made of the area and his gut. When he’s tired, he builds a fire and camps on the ground. When he’s hungry he hunts down vermin.

 

This monotonous routine eventually leads him to a congregation of bluffs. There upon the rock, small, malnourished trees protrude, water-starved fingers reaching toward the arid heavens. On their branches is a hoarde of vultures— all looking down at him, following his movements with their bare heads.

 

It feels like a warning.

 

The telltale lurch of his gut, however, forces him to press on, reminding him of why he’s here. He leads the horse through a gulch, though it grunts and tosses its head in protest. The echo of its hooves on the hard ground is the only noise to be heard.

 

He’s ventured through this place before, sure, but he never truly _looked_ (if he’s being honest, something always felt a bit...off about it, and Keith knows better than to ignore his own intuition. It’s one of the reasons, besides pure luck and a good aim, that he’s been able to live his risky lifestyle of collecting bounties and navigating for as long as he has). He now takes note of everything; every nook, each crack and sediment on the stones surrounding him like the place was threatening him to do so at gunpoint.

 

Eventually he comes to a halt— the gulch is a dead end, its ground now too rocky and steep for a horse to tread. Above him is an outcropping, though he can’t see what awaits him.

 

All he’s directed by is the instinctual tug, the urgent nagging in the back of his skull that he has to get up there.

 

He dismounts and pulls out the dagger attached to his belt, clenching his teeth around the blade. Keith rubs his gloved hands together in anticipation.

 

Time for a little climbing.

 

It doesn’t take as much effort as Keith expected to scale the incline. It’s steep enough to require effort, but with a bit of balance and use of the various ledges he gets there easily. Once he pulls himself up,he notices a cave going deep into the bluff, a feature completely hidden from the ground.

 

There’s a scuffling coming from within.

 

He pauses— there it is again. Slowly, he creeps to the mouth, dagger in hand, body tensed, prepared for anything when he sees—

 

“Oh hi, boy!”

 

A man who must be in his mid-forties with a ridiculous red mustache and hair to match waves him in with a colossal smile, as if they’d been friends for years. He pats the extra space on the log he sits upon in encouragement.

 

Keith looks around the area. It appears to be a makeshift camp— there’s two logs sat parallel to each other, a small fire in-between them. There’s a rusted spit-roast,various pots and bowls, and a couple blankets folded in a corner. There’s also, Keith notes uneasily, a large map on one of the cave walls, some locations upon it circled in red. Various posters of missing persons hang beside it. He spots a familiar, bread-winning smile (literally), with kind eyes to match, and upon further inspection also picks out a boy looking eerily similar to Pidge among the sea of faces— Shiro and Matt.

 

Keith’s hackles raise. He grips his knife tighter, pointing with it to the papers. “What are you doing with those?” he demands, teeth bared.

 

The stranger is still smiling, nonplussed by the obvious threat. He speaks with a certain pompous flair that screams _not from here_. “Ah! Those! We’re trying to find them, just like you!”

 

His lax, cheery nature on the subject adds kindling to the fire that is Keith’s anger. He steps closer, brandishing the blade and snarling, “ _Who the hell are you?_ ”

 

The man holds up his hands in a placating manner. His gaze, however, drifts past Keith and lands somewhere past him. His face lights up even more than it did previously.

 

The familiar sound of a gun cocking behind him makes Keith freeze.

 

Keith whirls around and finds himself looking down the barrel of a shotgun, held by the prettiest woman he thinks he’s ever seen.

 

“Ah, Allura! Welcome back! Look, we have a visitor!”

 

Turquoise eyes are locked on Keith. Plush, pink lips command, “drop the knife” with an accent similar to the one of the man at his back.

 

He swallows, and puts effort into making his voice as level as possible— showing fear is a weakness he can’t afford. “Drop the gun first.”

 

Oddly enough, the girl smirks. She’s entertained. “I can assure you, no harm will come to you if only you hear us out.”

 

He eyes her in distrust, watching her long, caramel finger on the trigger. “Sounds like a threat if I’ve ever heard one.”

 

She huffs out a laugh, exhibiting stunning, straight teeth nearly as white as her hair, which curled in perfectly messy pearlescent ringlets around her face. “It’s not, but it can be, should you not cooperate.” Her voice reminded Keith of an afternoon breeze across the sands: smooth, hypnotizing.

 

Against his better judgement, Keith grudgingly sheaths the blade, muttering “fine.” He still doesn’t trust her, nor the eccentric man for that matter, but he knows what cold-blooded killers look like and well... both of them are lacking in that department.

 

The woman sighs in relief, lowering the shotgun and reaches out a slender arm. “Thank you. My name’s Allura and this is Coran.”

 

Keith takes her hand, giving it a more-firm-than-necessary shake, exposing his discomfort.  _He’d heard those names before...._

 

“Hold on... aren’t you guys....... the town psychics?”

 

“Right you are, my boy! Coran the Gorgeous Man and Allura the Princess, the mystics from a faraway land~” he waves his hands in the air as if casting an obnoxious spell, staring straight into Keith’s eyes. “In town every Wednesday, five dollars a read,” Coran finishes with a wink.

 

“Five dollars!” Keith exclaims, “no wonder I never paid you no mind... that and I bet you’re both goddamn phonies!”

 

Allura turns to face him, eyes full of ice and voice cold. “We do what we must to get by. I’m sure you do the same, Keith.”

 

He feels a shiver pass through his body at the mention of his name. “How did you..?”

 

She smirks and lifts her bare, bronze shoulders in a small shrug. “Maybe we’re not so ‘phony’ after all... care for a palm reading?” Before Keith can object, say he has no money, she adds, “Oh, don’t worry, it’s free of charge.”

 

He has no choice but to sit down where Allura motions for him to, next to Coran, who appears to be absolutely thrilled to be telling Keith’s fortune. “Yes, absolutely, my boy! I will need you to take off your gloves, though.”

 

Keith does so, putting his leather, fingerless gloves in a neat pile on his thigh.

 

Coran clasps his hands together, looking very eager. “Wonderful! Just hold out your dominant hand like so and let me work my magic!!....... Ah, I see, you have a beautiful fire hand...”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Keith mutters.

 

“Well.....” Coran starts, a bit hesitant. “It means you can be a bit impatient or short-tempered, BUT—“ he adds quickly when he sees Keith’s scowl, “it also shows great potential for leadership and a clear set of morals! How very interesting you are!”

 

Coran then falls into his own little world, examining the smallest wrinkles on Keith’s hand and exclaiming the occasional, “oh!” or “hmmmmmm... I see! How odd...”

 

It starts to grate on Keith’s nerves, so he looks to Allura. “So.....you guys never really explained why you’re out here. Or why you have missing persons attached to your wall.”

 

She regards him calmly. “Ah, well you see, it’s like Coran said before: too many people have just... disappeared without a trace and we believe someone— or something— is responsible.”

 

“Okay, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re here, in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere.”

 

Allura grimaces slightly at the profanity, but answers with the patience of a saint. “Coran and I felt a powerful energy here, like the universe wanted us to witness something. I’m guessing that’s why you’re here, too?”

 

Keith’s eyes widen at the question. Damn, she was perceptive. Hesitantly, he nods. “Something just kind of...... drew me out here... I dunno what it was... some sorta....... pull..” He looks away for fear that he’ll be mocked or called crazy. Instead, he feels slender, dainty hands clasp around his free one.

 

“Don’t be embarrassed, Keith. Feeling these sort of things is a _gift_. It means you’re in touch with the world and the auras around you. Never doubt these impulses, these instincts. They’ll keep you safe.” Her eyes shine with sincerity, even as she lets go of Keith’s hand.

 

This sentiment makes Keith flush even harder, but he feels a spark of warmth in his chest at the woman’s kindness. “Thanks, I guess...” he mutters, unsure what else to say.

 

Allura nods. “Of course.”

 

A minute or so passes, and another question springs up in Keith’s head. “Have you found out anything? About the disappearances I mean.”

 

“Well,” she starts, “we’ve looked through the town records of crime and other disruptions since people started going missing, and it turns out that there’s been absolutely _nothing_. We’re not sure if it correlates to the missing persons, but it’s something to keep in mind.”

 

Now that Keith thinks about it, she’s right. He hasn’t seen any bounties posted, any wanted posters for criminals, not even any accounts in the newspapers since people started disappearing. “Duly noted,” he states.

 

“Aha! I’m done, Keithy boy!!” Coran interrupts.

 

“Don’t call me that...”

 

The man ignores Keith’s objection and begins his explanation. “I’m seeing that your life has not been the easiest—“

 

 _Yeah, no shit_ , Keith muses inwardly.

 

“— however, your head line, that’s this one here,” he points to the middle, outer crease in Keith’s palm, “is quite special. You see that line right below it? This means you have what’s called a ‘double head line’, which tells me you have great mental strength... very admirable, my boy....on another note it seems that something big, something very important is going to happen to you very soon. If I went with my instincts I’d say this very night!! Be sure to keep your eyes peeled as you’re wandering tonight, for you may even find romance!” With this advice, Coran winks and lets go of his palm.

 

Keith gives Coran a disbelieving look. “Romance?”

 

“You never know, sonny! Just be observant, alright? And take this!” He reaches into his shirt pocket and places an object in Keith’s palm, closing his fingers around it. “It brings good luck.”

 

Keith opens his hand, revealing a leather-cord necklace with an animal tooth of sorts— coyote, he notes upon further inspection— as the pendant. He pulls it over his head and tucks it into his shirt to keep it secure, smiling as gratefully as he can in such a situation. He’s a bit taken aback by how generous these people have been. They must be either unfamiliar with the norms of the unforgiving, lawless west or they really are psychic and can smell danger a mile away.

 

Keith bets it’s the former.

 

“You know,” Coran starts, commanding attention. “You can camp out here, with us tonight. Maybe we can experience this important thing of yours together!”

 

Something about the offer makes Keith nervous, tells him it’s safer on his own. “I’ll be okay, I think,” he declines.

 

“Ahhhh, you’re the sort of ‘lone wolf’ type. Well, I should’ve figured...That’s fine, too! At least let us give you some extra provisions as well!”

 

“No, really, you don’t have to—“

 

“Keith,” Allura interjects, “let us help you.”

 

Something about the way she’s pinning him with calm eyes of ocean tells him any resistance is useless.

 

He agrees, if only to leave sooner.

 

“Be safe, Keith,” Allura advices warmly as she hands over a small cloth bundle. “If you’d ever like to speak with us again, feel free to come by our stand when we’re in town. No fee necessary,” she jests.

 

Keith gives a brisk nod. “Alright. See you folks around.”

 

With a now-filled canteen of water and various dried meats, Keith clambers down the rock, landing somewhat unbalanced on the ground. He whistles for his horse, who’s been wandering about the gulch a good area away. Its head perks up at the sound, trotting towards where Keith stands.

 

As he starts off, two figures wave good-bye from the outcropping, and Keith smirks, raising his hand in acknowledgment and thanks. _Such an odd pair_ , he thinks to himself.

 

It’s later on, when he’s left the pass and set up for the night nearby, that he begins to pick apart Coran’s reading. It had to be fake, right? Coran and Allura seemed like good people (aside from when Allura tried to shoot him, and even then he sort of deserved it), but they were totally just messing with him. There’s no way he’d find any sort of romance in the near future— last time he checked he knew approximately two people who didn’t want to blow his head off. Still, it is a possibility that they were correct about something occurring tonight, and he can’t afford to turn down the biggest hint he’s had in _months_. He can’t help but buzz in excitement at the prospect of finally finding Shiro and having all the dead ends, the sleepless nights be worth it.

 

Though he’s already set up camp, Keith decides no harm would come from another ride around the area, just to be sure.

 

 

He’s mounting the horse when he sees it.

 

There’s first a resounding boom, like the heavens have split in two. Keith instinctually puts a hand on his knife, twirling around until he spots a bright light in the sky hurtling down, like a comet tumbling to earth, landing with an even brighter flash and the grating squeal of metal past the bluffs he just left.

 

The shattering pain in his gut forces him to his knees, clutching his stomach. “ ** _Mother of fuck_** ,” he curses through gritted teeth. _Looks like that old kook was right_ , he thinks wryly.

 

When the pain subsides, he jumps unceremoniously onto his horses’ back (earning an indignant snort), and then he’s off, following the smoke trail left behind.

 

He doesn’t stop until he’s right in front of it— a large, dented metal object half-buried in the dirt. A charred trench lays before it, some areas still aglow with embers, showing where the thing crashed and skidded to a halt. Knife in hand, he dismounts and creeps closer until he can see through what appears to be a window. Blinking lights and screens in a language he can’t read, accompanied by angry beeping sounds of alarm confront him, but Keith’s more concerned with the man the gadgets surround, visible in the dark due to the faint purple hue given off by them.

 

He doesn’t even have to question who it is.

 

There, inside the machine looking more than a bit worse for wear, was Takashi Shirogane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoooooooooo doggy!!!! we’re back again boyos!! had to get through some SERIOUS writers block for this, AND spent some time planning other sections of the fic. things should be going more smoothly from now on

**Author's Note:**

> so yeah uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh itd be real nice to get feedback on this to know if its actually worthwhile or not to continue? its my first time writing a multichapter fic so its def gonna take some getting used to so please have mercy on me regarding updates and shit ok thank youuu
> 
> TLDR: thanks for reading, please feel free to leave your opinion on whether or not i did an okay job and feel free to call me garbage as well


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